


The Perils of Domesticity

by susiephalange



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Bets & Wagers, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Reader, Fluff and Angst, Philip Anderson Being an Idiot, Scotland Yard, Secret Relationship, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Silver Fox Lestrade, Teen Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:21:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14142849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: D.I. Gregory Lestrade, and his girlfriend, live an unassuming life together in London. But that's only if you define 'unassuming' to bequietly chaotic.Previously titledDogs & Detectives





	1. Dogs & Detectives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [itscalledMagic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/itscalledMagic/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader and Lestrade are dating, and haven't told anyone. Of course, this leads to a wager in Scotland Yard, and when Sherlock catches wind - well, he's never one to shy away from a challenge, is he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the lovely @itscalledMagic - hope you enjoy!

All through your childhood, your mother would move you around the countryside. She said it was because she didn’t like to sit still, but, it was for other reasons involving your manic father and whole custody of you. Nevertheless, you inherited her itchy feet. You never found a reason to stick around any town before coming to London; you were a dog trainer in the K9 units for Scotland Yard. But every other police station before London, they were missing a key ingredient that caused your heart to beat just a little faster.

Detective Inspector Lestrade. From what you heard over coffee with a handful of his detectives, he was fresh out of divorce two years ago, and has since been stagnating and putting a hundred percent of his life to work. He had a daughter, and a penchant for the occasional cigarette even though he quits every Friday. But when you first saw him, you felt your breath leave your body, and you were just standing in the foyer outside his office like a puppy that had forgotten its training.

“Officer ________,” He greeted, seeing you through the crack of his office door, “Come in.”

The rest, they say, is history.

Every day, you did your best to warm up to him, bringing coffees in the morning, positive results from your dogs in the afternoons he had a chance to chat. He was always off around the city in the police wagons, working with a private detective, who, unlike any other P.I. you encountered, was more of an ass than conceivable. But, within a year, you had worked your way into Gregory’s heart, and in two, were considering moving in with each other.

“Greg,” you moan, sipping a horrid red wine from the corner store, “This year’s batch of dogs are wonderful, but…”

He glances up from the chopping board. It was a public holiday, and managing the night off, he insisted on making a fancy dinner for the both of you. It’s his kitchen, his rules, but you know that if he stuffs up, he’ll be buying fish and chips. “What is it?” He asks, frowning. “I thought you were Officer Midas, every dog you train turning to perfect scores.”

“I thought I was too.” you nod, placing your glass on the coffee table, and walk toward your boyfriend, “–there’s this German Sheppard, and it’s stubborn.”

Greg smiles to himself, “Like you, I take?”

You wrap your arms around his middle, resting your head on his shoulder. “They want to adopt Patrick out,” you ignore his quip, and with a sigh, you add, “I’ve never had a dog fail my training before, Greg…and Pat’s the loveliest dog –,”

He pauses chopping the spring onions, turning to you. “You fell in love with a dog?” He asks.

You nod, beaming, “He’s a nutter,” you praise, “a good dog, but a laugh. He’s only a puppy, so he’ll need a good trainer, and I don’t want anyone to take him.” You plead. “I mean, anyone without a record _could_ have him, but I can’t picture anyone else taking Patrick.”

“Yeah, okay.”

You blink. “Just like that?” you ask.

Greg chuckles. “Yeah, just like that.” He pecks you on the cheek, and glances to the clock. “Alright, I’ve got to get a move on if we want dinner before seven,” he motions to the recipe perched against the windowsill, “what else does the quiche need?”

Your eyes graze over the instructions, finding nothing else required. “Just my boyfriend to stop being pedantic,” you reply, going toward the bottle on the shelf to refill yours and his glass.

“Sounds like he cares about this dinner,” he says offhand, adding the spring onions. “and you.”

You grin, passing Greg his glass, “Aw,” you kiss his cheek. “Sounds like a guy great enough to stay in London for.”

* * *

Detective Sally Donovan knew when things were not her business to pry into. Sure, she had the occasional night with Anderson despite the fact he was married, and sometimes sat in the seat for the disabled on the bus, but she wasn’t a terrible monster. She was just…selectively interested. And seeing Officer _______ _______ from the K9 unit coming out of Lestrade’s office, it was one of these occasions.

At once, she took a secret snap on her camera phone, and withdrew to where the other detectives were heating salmon mornay in the shared microwave oven. When she showed the picture to Anderson, and Wilkins, and Bettina from level one, they frowned.

“Maybe her boss deferred orders to Lestrade for her,” Bettina said around a mouthful of Caesar salad.

“I can’t see them together,” Anderson stonewalled with a shrug, “For one, she’s not his type.”

Bettina frowned. “What’s his type, then?” She asked.

Wilkins laughed. “Not you, for one.”

Sally huffed. “Well? Who’s putting money either way?”

There was a little silence in the staffroom, and Bettina nodded. “They’re a thing. Or soon to be,” she crooned, taking the phone from her hands, and zoomed on Officer _______’s small smile. “She’s a tough nut, and yet, she’s smilin’.”

Anderson shook his head. “You’re delusional.” He grabs his wallet from his pocket and slaps a fiver upon the table. “Oh, it’s on, Donovan.” 

* * *

You were walking past his office when you heard the consulting detective and his friend inside. It was a usual occasion, them both coming to Scotland Yard to summarise the last case worked on, or perhaps, catch up with each other, but Greg was on the clock. You could just overhear the voice of Donovan on the phone, and the quiet whispers of the men as they waited for the Detective Inspector to return his attention to him.

“In summary, you have no new mysteries for me,” a clipped voice intoned. “In that case, I think we should be going. John?”

You backed up, walking around the corner. You weren’t a fan of Sherlock Holmes, either, but you also weren’t a fan of his seemingly all-knowing deductive gaze. Nobody else around the Yard knew about you and Greg and being seen by Sherlock was a sure-fire way to be caught. You opened your phone, and as he walked out in that crisp fancy coat, began playing a silly game with foolish noises.

He barely gave you a glance as he walked by.

When you were sure he was gone, you sighed. It was then you entered Greg’s office just as John exited. The shorter man glanced between you both, and smiling to himself, walked silently out.

“What was that about?” you ask, sliding the manila folders upon his desk closed. Greg sat behind his desk, perched as if he knew the person who owned the moon. “It’s not every day you get the dynamic duo in for a chat.”

Greg shrugged. “Sherlock’s impatient –,” he wiped a hand over his stubble, and added, “I’m sure his brother put him up to this.”

You see a little card upon the desk. It’s a sort of colour which is neither pink or red, and had a messy handwritten note on it, and a crayon drawing beside that. You frown, and picking it up, you inspect it, “ _Rosamund Watson turns one year old this Saturday_ ,” you read. Smiling, you read further, “ _Help her celebrate her birthday with close friends and family. Bring smiles, a plate, and plus ones if wanted. 221B_.”

Greg shrugs once more. “We planned on seeing a movie then,” he clicks his tongue, and goes to busy himself with his mobile phone. “The one about the–,”

“We’re going to Rose’s birthday.” You place the invitation before him on the desk, using your firm dog trainer voice. “Objections?” you ask, hands akimbo upon your hips.

He shakes his head. “No, Ma’am,” he laughs.

* * *

She was at a crime scene when Anderson and his big mouth let their wager slip. It was a male, middle aged, perhaps a murder-suicide if they found the evidence before Sherlock Holmes. But then again, he’d already come on in like he was God and deduced that himself. But now Donovan was suffering, her pocket of cash heavy under the weight of Anderson’s confession to the Freak.

“Am I right in saying that Scotland Yard is governed by children?” He crossed his arms.

Anderson went to object, but before he could further ruin the day, Sally interjected, “Well, what of it? Don’t you think they’re together, or not?” She demanded.

Sherlock frowned. “Of course not, don’t be absurd. Lestrade hasn’t dated for years, and she’s not his type.”

Anderson chuckled. “That’s what Detective Wilkins said.”

“…but I’d do anything to prove Detective Stupid wrong.” Sherlock concluded. From the breast pocket of his greatcoat, he withdrew a clip of notes, and slipped a twenty-pound note from it. “I take it we’re to not interfere?”

Sally snatched the money from him, placing it with the others. “That’s right. You can’t do any science experiments on ’em, we can’t start office rumours.”

He grinned a cat-like smirk, “You’re on, Detective.”

* * *

It felt weird to be wearing pants that didn’t have cargo pockets, but, then again, you practically lived out of your uniform. But, to be fair, your nice jeans and white button-down looked nice; it wasn’t often you had an event which didn’t call for your full-combat gear. But, even with the present for little Watson tucked under your arm, stepping out of the cab on Baker street, you felt a little worried.

“Did we leave enough water for Patrick?” you ask, glancing to Greg as you walk toward the door, “and toys?”

He placed a hand in yours. “Yes, love. He’ll be fine for two hours without us.”

You nod forcefully, “Okay, okay,” you take a deep breath. “and Rosie, she’s not too young to enjoy a stuffed toy? What if it’s a choking hazard – I’m no good at kids, Greg, what if–,”

Greg squeezes your hand. “It’ll be fine, _______. Don’t worry.” He knocks upon the door, only for it to open seconds later. An older woman stands there, wearing a lovely shade of purple that matches her lipstick. “Morning, Mrs. Hudson!” Greg greets.

Her eyes widen. “Ooh, Detective, I didn’t know you had a partner!” She laughs. “Forgive me, love, I’m the landlady, Mrs. Hudson.” She holds a hand to you to shake, and adds in a bubbly tone, “Come right on in, the little party for Rosamund’ll be starting soon!”

You go up the stairs, and see, with the door to 221B open, the gathering. Upon a little mat upon the floor, Rosamund sits with an array of doodads, dressed in a lovely yellow frock. You recognise John, sitting nearby, playing with his daughter. Sherlock is by the window, playing a violin. Sitting in a chair, is a woman with mousey brown hair, cradling a cup of tea.

“Hi, all!” Greg greets, grinning.

The pretty scene seems to break then, and at one, they clamour, turning from their poses to look to you both. John smiles. Rosamund coos. Sherlock turns, frowning. The woman who sits gives a little wave.

John goes to stand. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he holds a hand out to you, and you shake his hand. “I’m John.” He notes the gift under your arm, and gestures toward where there’s a little pile on the coffee table. “Molly, is the kettle still warm?” He asks the other woman.

She nods. “Do you take it with milk and sugar?” She asks you.

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll make tea,” you shake your head and kiss your boyfriend on the side of his wonderful stubble. “It’s Molly, is it? I think Greg’s talked about you before, you work at St Bart’s, yeah?”

* * *

From where he stood at the window, Sherlock paused mid-note of his tune. John shot him a look – like always – and went back to chatting to Giles as Officer _______ brewed a fresh pot of tea with Molly. He went to play the note once more, to continue the song, but, instead, he replaced his violin upon the stand by the window.

Sherlock frowned.

Mind racing, he backtracked to what happened just seconds ago. He’d heard Mrs. Hudson fussing around about something. Lestrade and _______ entered 221B. Gerard had said something, and then John, and then Molly. He turned from the view from the window and looked to Geoff. His face was different – had he shaved? Perhaps yesterday. It was a little rounder, and the wrinkles beside his eyes were more prominent.

He was happy.

Sherlock watched as George babbled along with Rosie on the floor, playing with a toy Molly had bought – an unrealistic looking bunny. But on the sides of his slacks, there were hairs. Dark brown. Dog. He blinked; Lestrade didn’t have a dog.

“Sherlock, do you want a cuppa?” Molly asked, hands around a pink mug she passed to Lestrade. “There’s some left in the pot, if you like.”

He shook his head. “No thank you, Molly.”

Officer _______ smiled. “It’s strange to see you in your own home, Mr. Holmes,” she said, blowing the steam from her tea, “I’m used to seeing you rushing around Scotland Yard like a madman.” She took a sip, and added, “It’s nice. Glad to see Greg’s biggest helper gets a day off every now and then.”

 _Greg_.

John laughed. “Well, you know what they say, no rest for the wicked,” his friend said, picking Rosamund up. “Time for presents, eh, Rosie?” the baby only gurgled in response.

But Sherlock’s mind was racing. Lestrade wouldn’t bring just any officer from the Yard over, and _______ had called him Greg – _what was a Greg?_ – and as John sat Rosie on his lap, pulling over the gift they had brought. They stood together, hands nearly touching, and as John tore the paper, out popped a small stuffed toy of a German Sheppard.

“She loves it, look!” Molly sighed, and turning to _______, said, “It’s just like your dogs, yeah?”

It clicked.

Quickly, he drew his phone from his pants pocket, and snapped a picture of the happy couple. Before anyone could interject, he walked out the room toward the bathroom, and locking the door behind himself, sat upon the lid of the toilet.

 _Guess we’re both wrong, Anderson_ , he composed a text message to Donovan, knowing he’d see it because Philip’s wife was visiting her sister. He paused before adding, _it’s all gone to the dogs for detectives_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently writing the next chapter, which, was another request! Hold tight, it's coming soon!


	2. Daughters & Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg forgets it's his time with his daughter, and you suggest to bring her along to your anniversary dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is for the lovely commenter by the alias 'adelaide', hope you like it!

Greg stares at his phone in abject horror. If it were any other night besides a Saturday, you’d suppose it was a work thing, or maybe a Sherlock thing. But you knew for a fact that it wasn’t a Sherlock thing – he was spending the weekend with John and Rosie at his family’s house, with Mycroft. And you both had vetoed all work-related people from contacting you the moment you both left the workplace at five o’clock.

But still, Greg stares at his phone, and you stand in the doorway to the bedroom, cup of tea in hand, slightly worried. You knew dogs better than humans, and yet, all you could do was stare.

“Everything alright?” you ask, passing him the tea.

Greg blinks. “I totally forgot it was my weekend with Avery,” he says, wiping a palm over his face. He looks at you with a sad look in those brown eyes, and adds, “Looks like the anniversary is off, love.”

 _That’s_ why you’ve both been so adamant with keeping work at bay. A one-year anniversary isn’t much to anyone else, but to you and Greg, it’s what you’ve been working towards, what, with dodging Sherlock and all workplace regulations. You’d planned to make it a pleasant occasion, with a meal at a nice restaurant nearby the flat.

You blink.

“Why don’t we bring her along?” you say, words coming out faster than you can think, and you go on, adding, “It won’t be a hassle, I don’t think.”

Greg frowns, eying you. “Are you sure, _______? I –,”

You nod. “Of course! You’re her father, Greg, she always comes first.” You smile, remembering how much your mother prioritised you when growing up. “Plus,” you add, “tonight is as good a time than any for her and I to get to know each other better.”

He considers his phone and looks back to you. “If you’re sure, _______, I…”

You nod. “Yes, I’m sure, Greg! Now call your ex back, I’m sure we can pick up Avery on our way to the restaurant, and still make the reservation.” You take the cup of tea back from him, which, was untouched by your boyfriend, and go to leave the room, “I’ll call the restaurant and change the reservation.”

* * *

If it’s starting to show that you’re nervous, nobody is mentioning it to you. While Greg took the tube to his ex’s row house, you waited about half an hour before leaving your shared apartment and took a taxi to the restaurant. It’s where you’ve been waiting for what feels like eons, but, according to the screen, and the battery on your phone, has only been an hour. Every five minutes or so you try to stop yourself opening a new message to your boyfriend, asking where he is, or if he was stuck in traffic, or if he had been called by work for a major homicide that meant the occasion was off. Instead, you’re searching through all the pictures you’ve got on your phone, deleting photos that are blurry, or screen-shots taken when you’ve accidently locked the phone, or snagged an ugly picture from Greg’s Snapchat.

But that’s when you open one you’re about to slam dunk into the rubbish, a photo of you, and Greg, and well, everybody. Mrs. Hudson had taken it, back when it was wintertime and you were recovering from a particularly nasty cold. Apart from the fact your face was a little flushed, you were looking at Greg, who was smiling for the picture. Beside you was Molly, holding baby Rose on her hip. Behind all of you was Sherlock, and John, and Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft. None of the men apart from Greg were smiling, and Rosie had a smear of shiny dribble on her chin, but, looking at it, it was a picture of all the people you cared for.

“I seriously can’t believe you’ve done this,” you hear a young voice groan, and locking your phone, you slide it into the pocket of your jacket, and glance up. “Dad, you’re totally the worst.”

Entering the doors to the restaurant are Greg, and a young girl who looks like a mix of Greg, when he was younger, and had colour in his hair; she had short, curly brown hair, dark eyes, and her lips set like they would be quite pretty if she wasn’t scowling.

Behind her, is Greg, his tie askew, hair ruffled by the spring breeze, and an apologetic look on his face. He smiles, and gives you a wave, but when you wave back, she speaks again.

“Wait, you’re ________?” She says, staring at you, “For all he talks about you, I’d’ve though you’d be at least pretty.”

_Oh._

You try not to react to her words, and instead, say, “You must be Avery, it’s nice to meet you.” You glance to Greg, and add, “I’ve managed to get us a table by the view, with another seat.” It’s then the server approaches your gathering, and realising all your party is finally here, guides you to the table by the window.

Sitting, Greg says, “I’m sorry we took some time, ________, there was a bit of an incident.”

Avery rolls her eyes, and picking up a menu, she hides behind it and doesn’t say anything. From what you can tell, there was more to it than just ‘an incident’. You don’t question it. Glancing to Greg again, you spare him a small, sympathetic smile.

He looks at you as if to say _are you sure you’re okay with tonight?_

But as adamant as ever, your facial expression reads, _I’m completely okay! Nothing is wrong!_

You clear your throat, and peering around the menu shielding Avery’s face, ask her, “So, from what I hear, you’re thirteen? How’s school?”

The menu is lowered enough for you to see her eyes, and they’re narrowed enough to look like she’s decided her enemy. If this was a scene from an animated movie, or really, any fantasy story, she’d probably climb over the table to bare-knuckle box with you. But she doesn’t physically fight you. At least, not now.

“Really? Of all the things, you’re asking about _school_?” She blinks, groaning. “I’ve got a rubbish teacher. My parents are divorced. And you’re here like you belong in this family?” She _harrumphs_. “I’m _peachy_.”

“ _Avery_ ,” Greg chides, jaw set.

You shake your head. “It’s okay, I probably deserve it.” you say to your boyfriend, and add, looking to his daughter, “I mean, I have been dating your father for a year, now, and this is the first time we’ve met. You have every right to be angry at me.” You smile softly, and glance to the menu, and say, “Has everyone chosen what they want?”

“I’ll have the steak and chips,” says Greg, who flags a waiter.

“The lasagne doesn’t look bad,” says Avery. She turns to Greg, and adds, “I want lemonade too.”

You look over the menu once more but can’t focus on the words. All you can hear is Avery’s voice, saying _and you’re here like you belong in this family?_ on repeat, like a broken record. It’s then you realise the waiter has asked you what you’re having, and all eyes are on you.

You clear your throat, a bit of colour on your cheeks as you say, “I’d like the vegetarian fettuccine carbonara, with mushrooms please.” Your eyes dart to the drinks section, and add, “And a glass of the cabernet sauvignon.”

Greg raises two fingers. “Make that two glasses, please.” 

With that, the waiter is off to the kitchens, and you’re left with a sort of uncomfortable silence surrounding the table. You play with a lose thread on your shirtsleeve while Avery plays on her phone, and suddenly, breaking the silence, Greg says, “I’ll be back in a few, I’ve got to go to the men’s room.”

Avery doesn’t look up, and as Greg stands, your face clearly reads _please don’t leave me!_

Either he suddenly doesn’t read faces anymore or has a faith in you and his daughter not tearing each other to shreds in the five minutes he’ll be gone, Greg shakes his head, and walks toward the restroom. Leaving you at the table, with Avery. For a few seconds, you bite your lip, and then look out the window – it’s now _very_ windy and almost sunset – and then there’s a _plop_ upon the table.

“________…” She says, chewing on her lower lip, “what is it that you do for a living, apart from…” Avery waves her hand vaguely.

You swallow, blinking. “I work for Scotland Yard, in the K9 units as one of the leading trainers.” You reply, carefully. It’s almost like a job interview, except, you’re trying to get on the good side of teenage girl who wants nothing to do with you. You’re much better at dogs than people (apart from Greg, and all your friends at 221B Baker Street), and you hope you’re doing half-okay. “I, er, I get to spend most of my time around puppies.”

Her eyes widen, “That’s cool,” she says, but realising her enthusiasm, she dials it back, fiddling with her fingers, she corrects herself, adding, “I mean, it isn’t lame.”

You thank her, and before you can stop yourself, you ask, “So, what do you want to be, when you’re older?” You look at her jacket, which has a smattering of buttons pinned to the lapel, her _Doctor Who_ t-shirt, and smile. You weren’t too different when you were younger; you were interested in wrestling with all the boys in every town you lived in and listening to Elton John records.

Avery glances over your shoulder, as if checking that Greg hasn’t come back. It’s then she takes a deep breath, and in a small voice, she says, “I want to draw stuff for comic books, but Dad doesn’t think it’s a real job, and Mum wants me to be a beautician like her.”

You frown.

You’re not sure where Avery gets the idea that Greg doesn’t like artists, just the other day you caught him staring at a Van Gough print someone had pinned on a community notice board on the trip to work. You’ve not met her mother, Beverly, but from what you hear, she’s very steadfast in her opinions when she makes them and spends rent money on good wine.

“Can I tell you a secret?” you ask her, inching your chair toward hers, opposite you. “My mother wanted me to write. She wrote an agony aunt column for the paper, always wanted me to be a genius writer like Tolkien, or Orwell.”

“But you’re not a writer,” she says, confused.

You agree, and nodding, you say, “Yeah, I’m not. I liked being messy, and dogs, and being outside. And now I’m the head trainer for the K9 unit here in London.” You give her a little smile, and add, “Here’s some advice, and you can take it, or trash it. But your parents, however well they mean, will _never_ be in charge of your decisions, for your life.” You straighten your jacket sleeve, and go on, “and to be honest, I can totally see you in ten years being a kickass illustrator.”

“Everyone okay?” Greg says, returning to his chair. He glances to the both of you expectantly, perhaps confused as to see you both in an exchange of dialogue. “Sorry I took a bit longer, there was a bit of a line.”

It’s then when the waiter arrives with the meals; Avery tucks into her lasagne, as does Greg with his steak, and sitting back, with your fettuccine before you, and a glass of fragrant wine before you. Avery gives you a grateful glance, before starting a conversation with Greg about her latest group project, and you sit there, loving what you have before you.

“Can I take a picture?” Avery asks, a passing waiter, holding up her phone. “Of all of us?”

The waiter smiles, and pocketing their notepad, takes the phone in their hands. You blink, as they work out the technology, and _scooch_ ing closer to Avery and Greg, you look to the waiter.

“Say cheese!” they say, taking a snap. “You look like such a lovely family, I hope you like the picture, and your meal.”

Passing the phone back to Avery, they excuse themselves, and go to the table in the corner that was flagging them down. Greg peeks at the screen and gives Avery’s curls a playful ruffle. She perhaps notices your silence, or your curious eyes trying to catch a glimpse of the photograph, she slides the device toward you on the tabletop.

You silently thank her, and cradling the phone, you look at the picture on the screen.

The perspective of the photograph has you positioned between Avery and Greg, your small smile not revealing too much teeth. Greg’s hand touches yours on the tabletop; his dishevelled greying hair catching the light. His eyes are the same shade of russet brown as Avery’s, and her eyes are crinkled, smile wide enough to see the same joy in her that you know fills Greg.

“Is it a good photo?” Avery asks.

Greg nods, returning the phone to his daughter. “Could you send it to me?” He asks.

She nods and starts to press the right buttons on her phone to do so. Glancing up, Avery looks to you and Greg, and says, “Tonight wasn’t that bad,” she admits. “I mean, if we all hung out again sometime, it wouldn’t be awful.”

Greg laughs. “I think we can find some spare time next month,” he says, and looking to you, adds, “You on board with this, ________?”

You beam. “Sounds great – oh wait! You haven’t meet Patrick yet!”

Avery frowns. “Who?”

Greg has a photo pulled up on his phone in seconds and shows his daughter. “Our dog.”

“Oh my gosh!” She gapes, her eyes wide. “He looks so cute!”

* * *

Later that night, you and Greg are laying beside one another in the bed, Avery tucked in and asleep in the guest room. You’re trying to get some sleep, but to no avail. It’s when the clock on Greg’s side of the bed reads a quarter past midnight that he rolls onto his side, and in the silvery moonlight coming from the window beside the bed, you can see the outline of his nose, of his lips when he says, “Was tonight okay?”

You can’t help but chuckle. “It was great, Greg,” you whisper back, your fingers finding their way to his hand, interlocking with his. “I wasn’t so sure at first, but I think I got through her tough-girl defences.”

He exhales at that. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s my fault,” he says. “She was so young when the divorce was finalised, and Beverly got the main custody because of my hours.” He says, voice a little sad. “But I do what I think is best for her. I’m glad both my girls are getting on, though.”

He goes to turn over to get to sleep, but that’s when you squeeze his hand. “Her birthday is in a month, yeah?” you ask.

He hums in agreement. “Yeah,” he says, voice a little sleepy.

“I’m going to buy her one of those electronic drawing pads.” You declare, feeling tired now too.

“Okay,” says Greg. “Night.”

You smile, turning into your pillow. “Night, love.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me [ko-fi](https://www.ko-fi.com/M4M3P4NJ)?
> 
> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


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